Tobias
by MoriarTeapot
Summary: The perfect combination of London's two most fearsome criminals, Tobias Adler-Moriarty hits the streets. His fascination with detective Sherlock Holmes and teenage rebellious streak are a deadly combination, and he is set on creating the perfect empire. But what happens when the country's most dangerous man is only 13 years old?
1. A Call to Arms (1)

A few trickles of sunlight danced through the window of 221B Baker Street and illuminated the thick layer of dust that lay across nearly everything in the room. Sherlock sat back in his chair and let out a peaceful sigh. The shirt sleeve on his left arm was rolled up to the elbow, revealing a singular pale nicotine patch.

The steps creaked and moaned as the lumbering figure of John climbed the staircase. He pushed open the door, which had been left unlocked, and stepped in. He removed his jacket wearily and was heading towards his own seat when he spotted the detective.

"Sherlock!" he said firmly. Sherlock looked up briefly before settling back down. "What did we say about those?" John spoke commandingly to Sherlock, the way a teacher might speak to a misbehaving student.

There was no reply

"No. I want it off. Now."

Sherlock sat up and gazed into the eyes of his companion for a few moments before pulling the patch off, folding it, and throwing it in the direction of an overflowing dustbin.

John looked over and wrinkled his nose. "Well, you'll be glad to know that I'm sparing you the lecture this time."

"And why do I have the honour tonight?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

"Mycroft wants to see you - said it was something important?"

"It's always something important. Why didn't he come himself?"

"Apparently he wants you to see it in person. Didn't think you'd come. Told me to tell you, um, lazarus?"

Sherlock straightened up at once. "John, get my coat," he said as he rose to his feet and purposefully strode into the kitchen to get something. "Mrs Hudson, we're going out!" he shouted down the stairs as he took his coat from John and pulled on his scarf, stopping only to correct its jaunty angle.

"Sherlock! I didn't even tell you where he wants us to go," John called as he chased the curly haired man down the stairs. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock hailed a cab and jumped in, followed quickly by John. He leant forward and murmured something to the driver who set off at speed.

"So, going to tell me what's going on?" John inquired once they had set off.

Sherlock gave "the look" to John, who leant back dismissively and waited to see where the cab would take them.

After half an hour or so, they finally pulled up in a deserted car park behind a derelict building. A few tins of paint rusted in the corner and a collection of shattered bottles and empty beer cans were strewn over the rough tarmac. Sherlock pushed open the door and stepped out into the breeze. John appeared behind him as the taxi drove off into the distance, tyres screeching.

"Wait, we're meeting Mycroft here?"

"Yes, and no," Sherlock answered, shielding his eyes from the bright sun as he made his way hurriedly to the peeling brown door that John had just spotted down a small flight of concrete steps. He trod carefully, ensuring to avoid stepping on any of the discarded rubbish that had found its way into his path. Once at the door, Sherlock pulled out a small metal key - an object that seemed rather comedic in a world of advanced technology. He inserted it into the lock and turned it, listening to the click as the tumblers fell into place and the door swung open. The inside of the building didn't look much different to the outside - rotting wallpaper, smashed light bulbs hanging precariously from the low ceiling, an almighty stench of piss...

Sherlock, seemingly oblivious to the condition the place was in, marched down the corridor purposefully until he came to another similar-looking door, this time without a handle. He raised his knuckles and tapped firmly on it in what appeared to be some sort of pattern. Once he had done, he lowered the knuckles and waited. John stood beside him loyally for what must have been half a minute or so before there was a heavy clanking and the door eased open smoothly.

John was slightly taken aback by what stood so plainly before him. Unlike the dank corridor, the room ahead had no sign of gruesomely rotting wallpaper and instead had clear, white, painted walls. The light was not that provided by a long-destroyed lightbulb but by plastic panels in the walls giving off a soft, white glow. And the smell... the room did not smell of human urine and thick, looming sweat but had the strange scent of a hospital room, or perhaps a laboratory, and, despite John's long stretch of training in similar surroundings, made him feel quite out of place. Nevertheless, as John was taking in the newly-met setting, Sherlock was already engaged in hushed conversation with a white coated, burly man who seemed to have opened the door, not the feeble frame John had assumed it to be but a heavily enforced titanium one).

Sherlock's conversation abruptly ended and he set off down the corridor at high speed, leaving John rushing to keep up behind. They passed through tens of similar corridors to the point where John wondered if their adventure was ever going to end. Of course, it did, and left poor old John nearly crashing into Sherlock as he stopped suddenly in front of a door labelled 'Interrogation'.

Seeming not to notice the near-collision, Sherlock took a sharp intake of breathe that John had learnt to associate only with his companion's "arch enemy" and pushed open the door with a new-found air of determination.

"My dear brother," Mycroft greeted with an underlying hint of sarcasm as the pair entered the room.

Room - it was more of a well-furnished corridor with rows of white sofas, coffee tables and long, clear windows that John could only assume peeked into the cells - he was a little too short to see without stretching unnecessarily.

"Do sit," he announced with his usual smile that one struggled to see the intention beneath as he twiddled his umbrella between his fingers and placed himself elegantly in one of the larger armchairs.

John waited for a comment about the dreaded 'diet' but one did not come. This was serious then.

"Whatever you've called me here for, Mycroft, it better be good," Sherlock said with a vengeful glare - John noticed that his demeanour had quickly changed after seeing his brother.

"Don't be stupid Sherlock, it is beyond even me to call you in such a way when the situation is not dire," Mycroft shot back firmly.

John spoke next, his voice filled with unspoken questions and confusion gathered from years of working alongside a consulting detective. "And what exactly is our situation?"


	2. The Stranger (2)

The three men stood next to one of the windows, staring at a tall boy through the one-way glass. He had a wild fringe of messy black hair that hung above his deep, blue eyes and was clothed in baggy white overalls

The figure, who looked around fourteen, turned his head slowly towards the glass, or mirror, as he saw, and flashed an evil grin. John had the eerie sensation that he'd seen the boy before.

Slowly, Mycroft began to articulate:

"We found this young gentleman last week. Pulled him out of a drug den in North London. He really shouldn't have been there and we were going to let him off with a warning though one thing stuck in our way."

Sherlock looked at him impatiently.

"His name, Sherlock, he wouldn't tell us his name. No matter how hard we tried."

Mycroft paused to take a breath.

"So we scanned his prints. Found nothing. Checked all our external records. Nothing. We had half our team tracking him down. Still nothing. This boy, did not exist."

Mycroft stopped for a moment to let his words sink in. There was an expectant silence.

"We took his DNA, wanted to find out who his parents were. Where he'd come from. So we sent off, and got back the results. This boy, is not a boy, Sherlock. His name is -"

"Mr Moriarty Adler," Sherlock finished coldly.

"Yes," Mycroft said, sounding a little surprised. "Though he insists he prefers Adler Moriarty."

"Of course," Sherlock murmured, the cogs in his mind turning almost audibly.

"Wait," John said, sounding slightly shell-shocked. "You mean, that - what - five metres in front of me is the son of two of the greatest criminals of all time."

"Yes," Sherlock and Mycroft replied in unison, causing both to recoil with a look of disgust.

"If you desire the details, he informs us his name is Tobias, we know he's thirteen years old and his very existence is enough to bring the whole of Britain crashing down," Mycroft relayed in monotone.

"What do they want?" Sherlock asked, looking up suddenly.

"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked in an innocent tone.

"You know exactly what I mean!" Sherlock spat back impatiently.

Mycroft sighed in the way only big brothers can and answered;

"We've had two individual threats, both calling for him to be released tonight at 9pm."

"So... one from Adler, one from Moriarty?" John suggested.

"It would seem so, but there is one factor we cannot ignore."

"Which is?" John asked with a hint of frustration.

Mycroft exhaled deeply. "Irene Adler is dead."

John looked over to Sherlock with sympathetic eyes but he gave no reaction; seemed more interested in the child. It was almost as if he had known, though that - John assured himself - was completely impossible.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft began, but his words faded to nowhere.

"You assume I care," Sherlock observed rather coldly.

It was John's turn to stutter. "We..."

"Thought it would be for the best. Congratulations on being idiots. Now, if I am not mistaken, we have a case, and I have a question."

"Ask away," Mycroft muttered with a roll of the eyes, their previous conversation forgotten.

"I wish to know why, after being in possession of one of the deadliest children alive for an entire week, you choose only to call me now."

"Don't flatter yourself Sherlock, if it were up to me you would not be here at all." Mycroft said flatly. "Unfortunately, however, you appear to have a client."

"Who's our cli- oh," John said, a look of realisation spreading across his face.

Sherlock's eyebrows were raised and his eyes wide.

"Oh indeed."

John rubbed his hands together nervously as he watched the detective stride confidently into the chamber. From what he could see through the window, it was fairly large, though it's only furniture consisted of a plain, white table with a pair of occupied handcuffs attached and two shiny plastic chairs that scraped noisily against the floor whenever the child moved.

Sherlock retained a look of seriousness on his face as he stepped up to his seat. He did not, however, sit down and, instead, the boy in front of him stood up.

"I would shake your hand, Mr Holmes, but it appears that, in such a situation, I cannot."

The high, unbroken voice had a slight Dublin accent and a familiar elegance.

"It would be nicer to have met you somewhere a little more... grand, but I suppose this will have to do."

"Yes... yes it will," Sherlock replied in his own deep voice as the two took their seats.

"I suppose you will have some questions for me, though I think it should be quite clear already that this is not going to be an interrogation," the boy - Tobias - said calmly. "And I do hope you won't listen to him all the time, it will get rather boring," he said, indicating (as much as indicating in handcuffs was possible) to the black plastic that was discreetly placed inside Sherlock's left ear.

John glanced over to Mycroft, stood in one of the concealed recording pods behind him. He had a look of utter fury on his face that John couldn't help but smirk at.

His attention turned back to Sherlock.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked plainly.

"I think we both know you already know that, Sherlock," he replied calmly.

"What makes you think that?"

"Oh, just the obviousness of your brother, the fact that you've come here and the reason I'm not dead already. Tell me, what time am I to be released? Is it the planned 9pm or are they really eager to have me home?"

"Who sent it. The other threat?" Sherlock asked firmly.

"You and I both know who sent the other threat, Sherlock. Shame your brother hasn't picked it up so soon."

Sherlock's eyes widened at the mention of his brother.

"Oh, don't worry. I won't tell. Of course, you'd have to promise to not tell my secrets either," Tobias mock-whispered with a wink.

Sherlock remained silent.

"You know, I've heard all about you, Mr Holmes. Stories, mostly, though I'd love to see the real thing. Solve a case for me, Sherly," he teased relentlessly.

Sherlock still refused to answer, his eyes tracing the outline of the boy - mind filled with empty deductions.

"Come on, don't be so boring. I do so hate to be bored."

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came and he promptly shut it again.

"Is poor old Sherlock struggling? Haven't found someone you can't deduce, have you? What a shame that would be for the great detective," Tobias grinned playfully.

Sherlock's mouth opened once again, but this time he found the words to speak.

"You're 13, recently recovered from a nasty injury in your right shoulder. Dislocation, you were grabbed and dragged firmly. Too firmly. Injury suggests you suffered abuse or some sort of trauma caused by..."

"By spending a week with your big brother's minions. Nice try, Sherlock, but not good enough. Come on, show me what you've got," Tobias said the last words with his head held back and arms stretched out as far as they could.

Sherlock took a deep breath this time, forcing himself to think.

"You were captured in a drug den, yet there are no obvious signs of recent drug intake in your physical form. You weren't there for the party. So why were you there? Business. Except you didn't turn up in a suit, unusual, don't you think, for the son of a man famous for his tyrannical power and love of Westwood. No, if you were on official business you would've worn it - please your father if nothing else.

So it can't have been his business, and it's not your mother's style. She's very protective of you, isn't she, kisses you on the cheek every morning - judging by the indented lipstick smear. You don't try to pull away, so you're loyal to her. Yet not that loyal, because you found yourself in the middle of crack den at quarter past midnight. She thinks you're doing drugs, but she's wrong. You don't take, you deal. Seems you've got quite the empire running under your father's nose. At least you did. It was all going fine, but you made a mistake. You were careless, went somewhere you tried hard to avoid. So why would you risk being caught? Why on earth would you ever put yourself in such an unnecessarily dangerous situation? There's only one motive that truly remains, Mr Adler Moriarty.

It appears we found you in the middle of running away."

John looked up, expecting to see the look of shock on the boy's face that was often associated with first-time clients, but, instead, he appeared to be smiling.

"You truly are clever, Mr Holmes," he said with a hint of admiration. "And I look forward to seeing you again, but for now, I have work to do. And it's time for me to go."

John checked his watch. The time read quarter to 9.

On cue, two scientist-type men appeared across the corridor and stepped into the room. Sherlock passed them as he walked out. John watched as they lifted the boy up, supporting his arms when the reflection of Mycroft appeared. He turned around to speak.

"So, what now?"

"He will be freed and given four hours to get away and somewhere safe before we can monitor him again. I assume he'll head for the tube and make his way from there, using the crowds as his camouflage. Who knows where he'll end up next," Mycroft said distantly.

"I imagine somewhere with his parents," Sherlock said, joining the conversation from behind.

"Yes, about that," Mycroft began. "It would have been nice if you'd told us that the Adler, ehm, friend of yours was still alive."

Sherlock shrugged childishly. "You never asked."


End file.
